the death of june.
113
Of Thee in all things. Sometimes 't is the moon,
Orbed like an Eye dilating with calm love,
That drowns me in pale, silent waves of light;
Sometimes it is the mighty, shadowing hills,
That crush me with a greatness not their own:
Or stars burn glory through me, living coals
On the heaped altar of the universe.
Orbed like an Eye dilating with calm love,
That drowns me in pale, silent waves of light;
Sometimes it is the mighty, shadowing hills,
That crush me with a greatness not their own:
Or stars burn glory through me, living coals
On the heaped altar of the universe.
But whispers oftener, borne from common things,
Waken a subtle faculty within,
A sense of deeper beauty yet unbreathed:
As Asgard's warder at the rainbow-bridge
Sat listening through all seasons, and could hear
The grass grow leagues away,—so comes to me
A golden gladness, with keen, delicate edge
Piercing the films that wrap the inner sense,
Making it joy to think of swelling buds,
And fruit slow-ripening on the apple-trees,
And young birds fledging in the robin's nest:
By every outward sluice runs through my soul,
And overflows its brim, the thought of Thee!
Waken a subtle faculty within,
A sense of deeper beauty yet unbreathed:
As Asgard's warder at the rainbow-bridge
Sat listening through all seasons, and could hear
The grass grow leagues away,—so comes to me
A golden gladness, with keen, delicate edge
Piercing the films that wrap the inner sense,
Making it joy to think of swelling buds,
And fruit slow-ripening on the apple-trees,
And young birds fledging in the robin's nest:
By every outward sluice runs through my soul,
And overflows its brim, the thought of Thee!
But the swift memory of man and sin
Returns, and drains away my happiness.
Returns, and drains away my happiness.
